


left to rust

by takingoffmyshoes



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Episode Tag, Gen, H/C bingo, Hurt/Comfort, post s02e01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-18
Updated: 2018-08-18
Packaged: 2019-06-29 05:30:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15722949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takingoffmyshoes/pseuds/takingoffmyshoes
Summary: Curly might not be the sharpest one around, but he’s a deft hand with broken bodies, be they human or horse.(Or, how Tommy managed to condense the equivalent of three weeks in hospital into four days on a boat, because we were all wondering about that.)





	left to rust

Curly has to help him belowdecks, a hand tight around his arm steadying him as he aims for one of the narrow steps and misses. “Careful, Tommy,” Curly says needlessly, but Tommy nods all the same. He’s a good man, is Curly, and despite Charlie’s remark he couldn’t be in better hands. “You gonna sleep?” Curly asks as he supports Tommy over to the bunk. Tommy grunts an affirmative; even that sends pain lancing through his chest, and he winces as he drops onto the hard mattress. “Should put the oil on first,” Curly offers nervously. “Give it time to work.” 

Tommy shakes his head. “It’s too fucking cold,” he says. “‘M not taking anything off. We’ll do it later.” He eases himself down with a tight groan, and shivers as Curly’s hands catch his head and neck to lower him to the pillow. 

“I’ll warm it up,” Curly says brightly, like that fixes everything. 

Tommy’s been fighting sleep since he woke up, and Campbell’s visit had been a curse within a curse: the fever had started to rise within an hour of his appearance, leaving him clumsy and shaking and sick. Now that he’s lying down again, there’s no chance of winning. Sleep is coming for him whether he wants it or not, and it’s all he can do to wave a lazy hand. “Fine,” he slurs. “Do it. I don’t…”

Just before sleep, he feels careful hands pulling back his coat and opening his shirt, then liquid warmth spreads over his chest in hypnotic patterns, and some of the stiffness falls away. He sighs, and lets go.

• • •

He wakes up shivering fiercely, shaking almost too hard to pull his coat tighter around him. “Curly,” he tries to say, but it gets lost in the shuddering and comes out as a wheeze. “Curly,” he tries again, louder, and gets heavy footsteps on the stairs.

“Tommy?” That’s a stupid question. Of course it’s him. Of course it’s— Of course—

“Easy, easy,” Curly says, the word jittering on his tongue like Tommy’s hands against his chest. “Let me get you a blanket. Just need to stop the boat first.”

He disappears back up the steps. Tommy coughs to try to ease the tightness in his chest, but it just comes back. It’s too fucking cold, too fucking— He pulls his arms in tighter, tries to burrow into the thin pillow, but he’s freezing, he’s freezing, he’s—

The tone of the motor is suddenly notable for its difference, and there’s a sharp jolt as the boat drops anchor. The footsteps come back, hurried, and there’s muttering and rummaging until a weight drops over him, covering him from shoulders to shoes. “There,” Curly announces. “Better?” Tommy just groans, still shaking too hard for words. There’s a hand against his forehead, followed by a soft tutting. “Really did a number on yourself, d– didn’t you Tommy?” Curly chuckles in his peculiar way. “I know what’ll help, though.” The hand vanishes, and—

—There’s a sharp smell in the air, pungent and spicy and comforting. It’s not as cold anymore, he realizes, and lets out a breath. He’s sore from shivering, but the shivering itself is done. “Curly?” he asks at the shape moving about in the gloom. _Stupid question, of course it’s him, of course it’s—_

Curly turns around. “You’re awake!” he beams. “How are you feeling?" 

“Like I’ve been hit by a train,” Tommy rasps. “Or a bunch of Italians. What day is it?” He tries to push himself up, but Curly tuts at him and nervously motions him down. 

“Not yet,” he says, “it’s not ready yet.” 

“What’s not ready?”

“The tea." 

That makes just about as much sense as anything Curly says, so Tommy lets it go and settles back into the bunk. “What day is it?” he asks again. 

“The second morning. Still got a ways to go, but you got a good sleep last night, eh?” _That_ makes just about as much sense as the tea, but it all makes sense in Curly’s head, and that has to count for something. 

He drifts for a bit, lulled by the soft motions of the boat around him, until that sharp, pungent scent grows suddenly stronger. Strong enough to make his eyes water, and he blinks back tears, coughs, and abruptly realises what it is. “Black powder?” he manages, and he sees Curly nod vigorously through the distortion of tears. 

“Black powder in black tea,” he says, pleased. “Good for fevers, and clearing the mind.” 

“Clears everything else, too,” Tommy mutters, and clumsily pushes himself up to sitting. “Give it here then, and let’s get this over with.” 

It scorches his tongue and then burns like hellfire in his nose and throat. It’s only practice that lets him swallow it down rather than spitting it out, but for all the discomfort it warms him quickly and loosens the tightness in his chest. The tea underneath the spice is strong and smooth, and sends blood rushing back to chilled fingers. 

“It’s good,” he manages. “You made it well.” Curly lights up at the praise. 

“Make sure you finish it,” he reminds him, pointing unnecessarily at the cup. “Half a cure is no cure at all.” Tommy nods, and steels himself for another sip. He’d heard Polly say that enough times to trust it even if he has no real reason. 

“Go steer the boat,” he says, and gives a powerful sniff. “I’ll be all right down ‘ere.” 

Curly nods, rapid and eager. “Just yell if you need anything,” he says. “I won’t be far.” 

• • •

He falls asleep again after finishing the first cup, and when he wakes up again it's night. Curly makes him another, and stands over him as intractibly as Polly until he forces it down. He's stopped the boat for the night, pulled it along the bank at a wide spot in the channel and dropped the anchor. 

Tommy almost misses the motion. Actually, he does miss it, since the slight rocking of the moored boat is just enough to be vaguely nauseating. The tea’s sitting heavily in his stomach and he's sweating profusely, but he keeps it down even as Curly manhandles him, stripping off his shirt and easing him back down to the thin mattress, blankets folded down over his hips.

He knows what's coming. “More oil?” he asks, not quite hoping to be wrong, but something drops at the sight of Curly’s enthusiastic nod.

This is going to fucking hurt.

Like any good liniment, the oil serves two purposes: to soothe any surface wounds, and to ease any deeper injuries. The first is easy. Just spread it on the skin. The second is hard. Spread it on the skin, then go after it with iron-strong hands, digging and kneading at the flesh below to break up knots and scar tissue and encourage the healing of anything else. It works, but at a cost.

Curly's hands are as strong and sure as if he really were the horse he’d half-jokingly, half-deliriously claimed to be, and he'll be grateful for it later but he surely isn't now.

He gasps and curses and twitches and jerks under Curly’s blunt and probing fingers, which unerringly find every bruise, every cracked bone, every strained muscle, and torture them into softness. He knows it'll feel better tomorrow, knows it'll be worth it when the worst of the stiffness and the deepest of the aches fall away as he sleeps, but God, it _hurts._

There're tears on his face by the end, and he's panting in short, shallow gasps, but Curly doesn't seem to notice until he's done. 

“Oh,” Curly says, sounding surprised and crestfallen all at once, and snatches his hands away. “S- Sorry, Tommy, I d- I didn’t—”

“It’s alright,” Tommy pants, since it will be eventually and that’s what matters, isn’t it? “Just give me some time.”

“Do you want more tea?”

He almost gags at the thought. “God, no.”

“No powder,” Curly hurries to clarify. “Just tea?”

“No tea, Curly.” He lifts his arm to wipe at his face with his sleeve, wicks away the tears and sweat and feels the heaviness in the motion. The pain is still there in every battered inch of him, but there’s relief somewhere behind it. Like a pot taken off the flame, which billows with steam even as the water stills. The pain is there, but it’s all at the surface now, rather than stifling in his bones. “‘M just gonna sleep.” The pain is there, but it’s fading, leaving exhaustion in its wake. 

“N- Need another blanket?”

When did the movement of the boat turn from sickening to soothing? He can’t recall. Some time ago, likely. Just didn’t notice.

“Tommy?”

 _No_ , he means to say, _I’m fine,_ but his mouth never moves. 

The blanket over his legs is pulled up to his shoulders, and a large hand pats his head once, twice, then withdraws.

He sleeps.

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this in, like, October for h/c bingo 2017 (prompt was "healers"). Obviously I didn't finish it in time for that particular event, but here it is nonetheless! Given the alarming dearth of h/c fic in this fandom, I thought I should share. 
> 
> Title from a line in “What the Water Gave Me” by Florence + The Machine because that’s how I do.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Any thoughts or feedback you'd like to share are greatly appreciated!


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